Pink Rose and Spider
by inkpems
Summary: The wintertime is always hard for Christine, and this time, she may not make it through . Raoul will save her, and visit the Angel of Music again. Leroux-based. Macabre in some respects, but has a desperate love. No real romantic pairings, just love.
1. Chapter 1

"Could you blame me? Could you blame me for leaving?" Christine whispered into the frosty window; icicles hung as daggers from the sill. She looked upon the snowy hills that surrounded her.

The wintertime always led her thoughts to Erik. The snow masked the death beneath so smoothly, so coldly. Her sense of macabre had long been piqued by Erik; she saw him in the eerie facets of everyday life. When the mirror reflected strangely, simply because of odd lighting, she still thought of him; when something was amiss in her mind, she heard his voice singing. Despite her best efforts to eradicate him, he still wrapped those spider-fingers around her psyche, twisting it quietly with his disgusting beauty. It was at its worst in the winter time. How she wished for spring.

She rose abruptly, suddenly too cold to be sitting near a window. She tried to sit by the fire, but it seemed to sear her skin. She tried a blanket, but grew too hot. She settled upon a lounge chair, soft with cushions, hoping that it would warm without swallowing. Her heart was beating erratically. She looked upon the hard, powder- white snow, and wished to sing. Erik was dead.

She could not sing again.

****

Raoul watched his wife. The wintertime always made her restless.

In the spring, her heart was a deep well, filled with the waters of love. But wintertime dried her, froze her, and damn near killed her. She was naturally a pale girl, with pale hair and blue eyes, but in the winter, she looked as though death were flirting with her lips and cheeks. She had no life in the wintertime. She thought so much of that man- of Erik- when it was cold and barren. Perhaps the white of snow was like the white of the wings of the Angel of Music. He had no real idea, except that his living wife became quite dead, like a porcelain doll draped across a bed too bright for its lack of hue.

He wondered what would get her through this winter. Already, it was worse. Five years had passed since they married quietly, and moved to the north. The servants kept it warm in the house. He cloaked her in the most beautiful furs- mink, chinchilla; imported straight from other countries. They were custom fitted to trim her small frame in elegance, but they hung around her bony shoulders. No bosom brought the coats to life, no smile beneath the caps ever beamed, no warm hands ever extended from the mufflers. Instead of beautiful works of art, the furs simply looked like what they were. They were as dead as the woman who wore them. Raoul prayed and cried for the first blooms to blossom, for the first birds to sing. His wife would come out of her depression, and love him once again, instead of longing for the Angel of Music.

He watched her, as she sat upon the emerald chair. She was a doll. She had already lost weight, and it was only the first snow. After it had finished falling, perhaps they could ride into town. Oddly, she seemed to enjoy the market. She was really a simple girl, who enjoyed simple things. She enjoyed sewing. Perhaps he could purchase her some new fabrics. She had made a lovely summer dress the year before; she looked darling in sunshine yellow. One of the maids had embroidered green and pink flowers along the hemline and bodice. She had plucked a soft pink rose from one of the bushes, placed it in her hair, and drew him in for a sweet kiss. He had taken the rose from her hair, twirled it in his fingers, threw it to the ground, and swept her up into the most magnificent of spins.

_She was going to die by the end of this winter_. She needed music. She needed Erik. He had not the slightest idea what he was going to do- but he was going to save her.

"I must visit _that grave_," he said to himself, plainly, bluntly. "I must look upon that Angel again, to save Christine." He turned his eyes to the mirror on the other side of the room.

"Help me, Angel of Music," he pleaded quietly. Oddly, his blue eyes flickered gold for a moment.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: This is weird. Enjoy. I'm not promising constant updates. Will try for once a week. After college lets out, I should be able to get a consistent update. It is going to be a likely short story, no more than ten chapters, and probably not that many. I am, however, hoping to get into it more. I also enjoy some help. I haven't written anything but lab reports in two years, so I really appreciate someone's advice. Now, onto the story.

*******

He packed lightly for the trip, or at least as lightly as he could. Paris in the wintertime was not a friendly season. It could be deathly cold. He told his wife goodbye sadly, nearly crying. She seemed to register him, but vaguely, as if his departure were far in the catacombs of her mind. She had processed and placed it far behind the hope of music. He selfishly hoped that some sadness for his abscence, deep and unspoken, lay somewhere in her heart.

He travelled by himself. Though he had been accustomed to the benefits of wealth, he could easily take care of his own needs. He did not need a servant to feed or clothe him. He could take care of himself. The night before, however, he asked one of the servants to cut his hair short and trim his scruff. He had a feeling the beard would be long grown out before he ever cared to shave.

He was travelling to a place where nothing but death and disease lived; where no light could enter. He was doing it for Christine. He hoped he would not die.

He watched her as she stared out of the window, a pale little child against the green chair, a tangled thicket of once-gossamer hair hanging down her back. _Goodbye, sweet Christine,_ he whispered in his mind.

Slowly, she turned around and looked at him, as if she heard him think. He left.

***

He arrived smoothly; the trip had gone well. It had some turmoil on the seas- but he knew what this was like, after his time in the Navy, and steadied himself through the thrashing as best as he could. The train ride was no unpleasant, though strange. He thought he had secured a private car, yet a young, pretty lady had been sitting in his assigned number. Normally, he would have asked for an explanation, or at least inquired if she were in the right spot. But somehow, he knew that she was.

She _was _very pretty, with long hair and a full figure. He felt no lust for her, but enjoyed looking upon the milky, delicate features. She was dressed in dove-gray. She addressed him directly when he took his seat.

"You are oddly calm, Vicomte."

"I know there is nothing except the grace of God or Erik that can remove you from this car, Mademoiselle Grace, so I will only sit and listen to your words." He wondered how he knew her name.

She had a peculiar color of eye, a golden-hazel. They were catlike, and large, and long, with a black lashline and black framed in black brows. She wore cosmetics, but little. To fully idealize her beauty, a touch of rouge on her cheeks would have been necessary. But Raoul had long quit caring about the ideal beauty. He simply wanted the color of [i]life[/i] to be back in his wife; he had no care for makeup on her face.

"So, why are you here, then? Could I not find Erik unhaunted?"

"Of course you couldn't. I wanted to tell you how he was doing."

"How the dead is doing! Well I guess this does confirm the Lord!"

"My presence alone should confirm that. I have been dead, what, forty years? I died when Erik was twenty-five, or around that age, who knows."

"It has been longer that you've died. He was in his sixties the last time I saw him. It has been five years since."

"Yes. I suppose it has. We don't remember much after we have died. Except Erik." And Raoul was swept with a cold, cold chill, despite the lush warmth of the luxury car. He mentally screamed at his beating heart to be quiet.

"He does not hate you, Vicomte. He loves you as much as he loves your wife. You are a part of her, after all, and he must love all of Christine. Do you love all of Christine, Vicomte?"

"Yes, Gracious."

"Then, you love Erik. For he is Christine, and Christine is Erik, and you are Christine, so you are Erik."

"Yes, Gracious."

"Then, you shall be fine. He will not hate you when he sees you. I love him too, and have found peace with him in this afterlife."

"Why do you even care, Gracious?" Raoul exclaimed. "You did not love Erik while he was alive, why would you love him now? You always thought only of yourself! You abandoned him! You beat him! You abused him! Why should you care? Why should he love you now?" Gracious simply watched him, her golden orbs hanging hugely in the air.

Her voice was a harp, a chord, a song, a lyre, as she spoke to him again, but he did not know what she said. The harpsichord words rang somewhere, not on his ears, but resonated deep and far within his chest. His heart pounded so hard with the melody of whatever she said, he thought it would burst through his lips.

And so, Raoul cried. He cried hard, to where he did not notice when the window to the car snapped open, and a beautiful gray bird flew out. He would never be rid of Erik. He did not care. He had Christine.

****

He had walked straight into the Opera House. No one stopped him when he had entered Box Five, no one stopped him when his hand had found the trigger mechanism for Erik's secret seat (how he knew where the trigger was, he did not know. How he felt familiar when he had sat upon Erik's cushion chair, and wept, he did not know. But he had known that he knew.) The path was laid out. He only had to walk it, to find where Erik lay. The water was frozen. Perhaps Erik had kept it warm when he lived there, but now, it was frozen.

Dark, and lit only by the light of his lamp, he knew what he must do to cross it. He threw it into the water. Suddenly, the pond of ice a became soft, warm pool, blue, lit happily from silver lights. It burbled, giggling at him, at his feet that had no real need of boots. He took them off, and dove towards the bottom of the basin. The effect was immediate.

The water was seductive. His mouth puckered. The sweet, clean scent of the liquid filled his nostrils. His lips parted as he submerged himself into the bliss, sighing, at the ecstasy of the teasing waves, his eyes closing, aware of each bit of his skin, feeling tight in his clothes and the water smoothed her fingers on each daring crevice. She followed each cranny of his flesh until he was unclothed. She surrounded him, the waves squeezing, pulling, touching his lips, his hair, every part of him the Bible forbade be touched by such a woman.

But he was not lost. He felt a closing pressure above him, and when his lungs clutched with death and his blood screamed for air, he knew remembered his task. He pulled himself from the heaven, the power of that blissful water, pulled himself out by the bars he knew lay on the other side of the terrible transparent door. He drew himself to the surface, away from that siren and her silky blue lips, and watched the trap seal itself. The edges were gray, and he could tell when it was done. The top slowly sank down, enclosing whatever poor soul had followed him (for he had indeed been followed….how could he not in this place?) to their happy death.

Erik had once told him that only those who wished to find him could do so. Whatever drug the maniacal man had infused the water with, it threw the body into the desires only the deepest part of the mind imagined, the parts that rarely (if ever) came out. To get through the Lake- without a boat, or Erik, or Christine, that was- one had to truly want Erik more than sexual desire. It was, no doubt, the sickest and cruelest form of ego-satisfaction Raoul had ever encountered.

Anyone with the slightest touch of sexuality would be thrown into torture, regardless of how controlled it was in the outside world. (Here, only Erik and the toys of Erik's mind existed.) Those who did would not lose themselves in the downright perfect feeling the potent water gave them, could grab the bars of the underwater ladder Erik had built in, and pull themselves out. One only had a short period of time, though, until the door to the underwater chamber closed. The time was set to last with the effect of the drug. Right as it reached its peak potency in the brain, the door shut. Right as the door shut, the drug began to wear off. And the last thing the victim saw, though the clear water and the clear door would be two very large, sparkling, catlike eyes, laughing at human stupidity.

Now Raoul, naked and shaking, and very cold again, grabbed the mildewed clothes Erik had once left out for the few who survived. They had been sitting there for five years. There was a set for a woman and a set for a man. He put on the latter. It was terrifying that, after five years of no use, the drugs and trap and door and everything still worked as though Erik had oiled the springs yesterday. He looked back at the small pool and vomited.

A hand, newly severed from its body, was floating near the top. Through the small cloud of blood it formed, Raoul saw the body of the writhing stagehand who had followed him. The man was surrounded by his own blood, and did not care. The water had stripped him of his clothes. Raoul knew that the man was about to come to a very startling realization. He left before he could see the shock, that death was about to eat the struggling soul. Raoul could not help. He only wanted to see Erik.


End file.
